


Deserve

by Fire_Sign



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Flashfic challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-02
Updated: 2018-06-02
Packaged: 2019-05-17 06:07:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14826780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fire_Sign/pseuds/Fire_Sign
Summary: Margaret has never really understood her daughter, but she's willing to try.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote the first 500 words of this in an amazing rush, then suffered horribly through the last few. It started off so promising and then... 
> 
> For the prompts: fortress, fragile, "Do any of us really get what we deserve?"

Margaret has never really understood her daughter; even as a child she was too brash, too headstrong, too ready to fight the world for every minor transgression. Life and maturity have smoothed her edges, giving rise to an elegant woman; but her anger is still a fortress around her heart, and Margaret has never been able to breach the keep. Margaret knows she is not the warrior her daughter is, however much she would like to be. 

It is why when, three days after Phryne has landed in England and returned her father home with a convoluted story that would read more like Henry’s falsehoods than the truth if he didn’t have Phryne and a fresh scar on his side, she doesn’t think twice when a telegram arrives. Phryne snatches it from the butler’s silver tray with a beaming smile, tearing open the envelope with enthusiasm; the eagerness fades from her face almost instantly, replaced with an inscrutable stillness.

“Oh,” she breathes, the sound stretching out through the now silent parlour. Beside Margaret, Henry is watching the tableau with equal interest. “Oh, that’s a shame.”

Even at a distance Margaret can see her hand shaking, the way she takes a deep breath as if to keep from crying. For the first time in years, Margaret sees the fortress for the fragile paper construction is really is, and her heart aches.

Phryne gives herself a shake and the mask is in place once more, but there is a tremulousness to her smile that Margaret hasn’t seen before.

“I should go write my response,” she says, “if you’ll excuse me.”

And she is gone. Margaret sits on the edge of the chaise, the urge to comfort her daughter warring with the knowledge it would be unwelcome. She turns to Henry instead, unable to hide her curiosity.

“Boy trouble,” Henry says. “I’d bet my hat.”

“She’s a grown woman, Henry.”s

Henry shrugs. “I know what I saw.”

“In Melbourne?” Margaret asks, already running through Phryne’s letters to her over the past year, a new suspicion taking shape, a name oft-repeated. It would be fantastical if she hadn’t just witnessed Phryne’s reaction, but it is a fantasy she is willing to entertain. “Is it that inspector?”

A nod.

“He came to the airfield, before we left. At first I thought there was another murder, but…” Henry trails off. “He’s a dour man of the law, I can’t imagine what she sees in him.”

Margaret arches an eyebrow. “You wouldn’t, dear.”

Henry chuckles, and she remembers why she fell in love with him.  “Be that as it may, there have been telegrams back and forth the whole flight. She’s besotted.” 

Margaret eyes the doorway Phryne has just exited, and makes up her mind. She stands and pats Henry’s hand, then sweeps from the room in search of her daughter. It doesn’t take her long to find Phryne, leaning against the corridor wall and rereading the telegram. When she looks up, there are tears glistening in her eyes and Margaret remembers her as a young child, before she’d learnt to hide her emotions, before she'd built that impenetrable fortress; Margaret wonders, briefly, whether she is to blame for that lesson.

“Bad news?” Margaret asks softly. 

Phryne tries to play it off.

“Just an unexpected development,” she says lightly. 

“May I?” Margaret asks, stepping closer and motioning towards the telegram; Phryne pulls it closer instinctively, but then hands it over. Margaret reads it; she does not know the inspector, aside from things Phryne has said, but even she can see the regret in his words as he explains that the time away from Melbourne could not be arranged after all.

“It’s not important,” Phryne says. “A passing fancy, really.”

“This doesn’t sound like a passing fancy.”

“He’s a busy man,” she says. “He has commitments he can’t set aside on a whim.”

“You deserve better.”

Margaret means it. She may not understand her daughter, but she is in awe of the woman she’s become all the same. Phryne deserves a man who waltzes reason out of her, who makes grand gestures and loves her with an intensity that can withstand anything, who makes her vulnerable and makes her strong. She deserves someone worthy of her love. Margaret doesn’t know if this inspector is that man, but clearly her daughter thinks so; it’s written across her face even as she pretends to be immune. 

Phryne shrugs. "Do any of us really get what we deserve?"

_ That  _ is a lesson Margaret knows she taught her daughter, and wishes she had not. 

“Sometimes,” Margaret says. 

It is a lie, but Margaret is determined to make it the truth. Just once. Just this once, she will find a way to defend her daughter’s keep. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently my brain decided that I needed to continue this with the next set of prompts. IDEFK 
> 
> For the prompts: itinerary, timid, “I’m sure I never used to be so sensitive”

It’s with more than a little trepidation that Prudence opens the telegram from her sister; Phryne might have flown Henry home in a grand romantic gesture, but Prudence has been on the receiving end of too many of Margaret’s tirades to believe that will solve all the problems in the Fisher marriage. She has offered, more times than she can count, to take Margaret in; divorce might be a social stain, but there are plenty of people in their position who share no part of their lives with their spouse. But Margaret always declines, saying that she loves Henry, and Prudence has to wait for the next missive filled with anger at his failures.

The telegram is not what Prudence expects; it is a plea for help, but not for Margaret. It is for Phryne, and as aggravating and improper as she finds the girl, Prudence has always loved her; her spiritedness and determination would make her a formidable foe on the social scene, and it is an eternal disappointment that she’s taken to the private detective business instead. Still, Prudence will provide what assistance she can.

Her sister’s words are much like Margaret herself--she writes of Phryne’s love, of disappointment, of the great tragedy of Inspector Robinson’s work commitments. It is overly dramatic and romanticised, and yet the sincerity comes through in every word. And despite herself, Prudence understands; for all her disapproval, she would have to be blind to miss the affection between her niece and the police officer.

“I’m sure I never used to be so sensitive,” Prudence mutters, sniffing as she sets the telegram aside. If she’s to be of any help, it is far better to act than to daydream.

 

*

 

Three days later, Prudence Stanley has an itinerary and a plan. She summons Inspector Robinson to her home; when he arrives, timidly passing his hat from hand to hand as he stands in her foyer, she greets him herself.

"Inspector!” she says warmly.

 "Mrs. Stanley,” he says with a tip of his head. “I do hope there hasn’t been a murder.”

 She tsks disapprovingly and motions him into the parlour. Tea and sandwiches are brought in and he tucks in happily, all nervousness gone.

 “I need your assistance,” she says without preamble, and he chokes on one of the sandwiches;  she lets him take a sip of tea before continuing.

 “My sister has discovered that--” she sniffs, unable to hide her contempt, “her husband’s recent escapades in the Antipodes are presenting more difficulties than anticipated.”

 “I’m sorry to hear that,” the inspector says, “but I’m not sure how much help I can be.”

“Quite a bit, inspector. On the advice of solicitors and with the express permission of your chief commissioner, you have been given leave to testify on the behalf of Henry Fisher in London in six weeks time.”

 “I--pardon?”

“All expenses paid, of course.”

He looks suspicious. “Is Miss Fisher behind this?”

“No,” Prudence answers honestly. “She doesn’t know yet, Margaret doesn’t want to worry her. You are simply the most reliable person available, and it would be a great deal of help.”

 “I… I would have to tell her,” the man says. “I respect Lady Fisher’s position, but--”

 His honesty is unsurprising, but still welcome; the deception is necessary for this to work, but Phryne deserves the truth.

“Of course, inspector,” Prudence says calmly.

He smiles, a genuine, open smile that seems to transform his face; whatever dour sombreness she’d come to suspect is gone, replaced by a man who has had the whole world laid at his feet, ripe for the taking.

“Then I had better pack,” he says, standing. He is halfway to the door when he pauses, turning to look at her once more. “Thank you, Mrs. Stanley. I have no doubt you were instrumental in this.”

She merely smiles at him; she’ll happily take the credit, if it makes her niece happy.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Third heat, I'm still here. Thank god the fourth heat is in the middle of the night for me. For the prompts: buttons, braces, shirtsleeves

Phryne has never been a patient woman, and the weeks of waiting for Jack’s ship are unbearably long. She doesn’t pine, she’s too proud for that, but she checks the shipping news every day despite memorising his itinerary. His telelgram explaining that there had been a second change in plans, that he had business to attend to in London… for once she had been happy with her father’s inclination for trouble, and she can’t help but smell her mother’s interference all over it. 

The day the ship is to dock, Margaret and Henry are already awake when Phryne comes bounding down the stairs, dressed for a day on the town. 

“I thought it best,” Margaret says, leaning close. “It’s such a shame the inspector has come all this way only for things to resolve themselves yesterday, but I’m sure he’ll appreciate the news from you. And your father insists on buying me my hearts’ desires now that it is.”

It is not a subtle lie, but frankly it suits Phryne just fine. She practically sweeps through breakfast and out the door, the nimble motorcar tearing through the streets of London with ease; she arrives at the docks to find the ship is already in, the passengers in the midst of disembarking. Her eyes sweep over the crowd, and the swooping flutters in her gut rather put paid to the illusion that she is anything but wildly in love and eager to see him. She finds she doesn’t mind nearly as much as she thought she would.

“You’re late, Miss Fisher.”

She whirls around and he is laughing at her, those familiar blue eyes crinkling in amusement.

“I am not,” she quarrels. “You arriving first does not make me late.”

His smile softens and her gut twists and _ damn him _ .

“We’re both here now,” he offers as an olive branch.

She smiles.

“We are. And if the traffic is good, we can be elsewhere in about twenty minutes.”

It is far from her best flirtation, but he glances at his watch.

“Time is ticking, Miss Fisher.”

 

*

 

It does, in fact, take twenty-three minutes and a near miss with a traffic cop to get back to the townhouse, but Jack has the good grace not to say so. 

“Mother and Father are out,” Phryne says as they arrive. “And your professional services are no longer required, if they ever were.”

“I had wondered.”

“It wasn’t me, Jack. It seems you are the latest in a long line of attempts for my mother to buy my forgiveness.” He coughs, and she flashes him a grin. “She needn’t do it, but I can’t find it in myself to object under the circumstances.”

He tilts his head slightly. “Nor I.”

It is the familiarity of the secret smile on his lips that tips her over; this is real, it’s happening, she is sitting in a parked motorcar with nothing between her, Jack Robinson, and a bed but some stairs and a wooden door. She laughs in delight, and it prompts him to chuckle too. It’s absurd and wonderful and right.

She practically drags him from the motorcar, feeling giddy as they mount the steps and enter the townhouse.

“There’s lunch,” she offers, “or--”

Jack Robinson is an exceptionally good kisser.  Not that Phryne had ever doubted it, but she can barely tear herself away from his mouth to work on his buttons, stumbles on the stairs as she attempts to navigate them backwards, whimpers against his lips like some sort of lovestruck virgin when his hand sneaks below her blouse to stroke the skin of her back. She retaliates by pulling him across the boudoir threshold by his braces, snapping them back and making him gasp.

The experience is frantic, but it is not the combustion of simmering desire that burns out quickly, or a desperate attempt to remain uninterrupted; it’s laughter and eagerness and the press of his cheekbones against her inner thigh as she comes, enthusiasm and discovery and the taste of his lips and the way he shudders at the scrape of her nails against his back. It’s electricity and magnetism and some unharnessed power she murmurs against his skin when they are both sated.

They sleep afterwards, undisturbed until the sound of Margaret and Henry’s return wakes them both up; it’s late afternoon by then, the sky already darkening for a winter’s evening, and Phryne makes a mewl of protest at the suggestion they get up.

“Stay in bed then,” he says, pressing a kiss to the top of her head; even in her half-asleep state the sweetness of the gesture makes her smile. “I for one did not have lunch, Miss Fisher, and I’ve worked up an appetite.”

She groans theatrically and moves aside just enough to let him out of bed. She watches his movements through a cracked eyelid--the quick ablutions at the wash basin, the stretch and pull of his muscles in the lamplight, the dressing as he slowly becomes the Jack she recognises. He is in his shirtsleeves, hands in the process of knotting his tie, when he pauses and looks at her; he doesn’t know she’s watching, and the unrepentant love on his face is a secret meant only for himself.   


She buries her face against the pillow and smiles, and wonders what she’s done to deserve this. 


End file.
